Work Text:
(1)
Childbirth is everything Maude thinks it will be.
Long-winded, agonizing and bloody.
They lay the child in her arms when she would much prefer to sleep. The precious lamb has wispy tufts of down on his pretty little head. He snuffles. Somehow that wins her over.
Gonna name him for his daddy, Miz Standish?
Not this side of Oblivion, she thinks.
He needs to be lucky, this boy of hers. He does have a sweet face. Darling little hands that curl open and closed. An adorable button nose.
"Take him away now," she says. "I can always decide later."
(2)
No one tells you.
Not your grandmother, your mother, your aunts with their cheerful broods, not your best and wisest friends.
No one explains that a child will suck the marrow right out of you.
And Lord in Heaven, the frustration. The weariness. The resent.
Maude rocks Ezra as she paces in the sweltering afternoon. He won't quiet down. He won't sleep, won't take milk, won't accept blandishments. Just cries and cries and cries, like he's lost in the wilderness. Each time it seems like he's tired himself out and she plants him into the yawning crib, his bright eyes open and that look of despair flashes on to his face. Then it all begins again.
Finally, when she's rocked and sobbed and begged and bellowed at him, he suddenly falls asleep, mid-hiccup. His perfect lashes are wet, his expression enough to twist your heart into a thousand knots.
Maude doesn't dare lay him down. She continues the endless walk, her difficult little stranger biding his time in the uneasy crook of her arm.
This is, without a doubt, the worst thing that's ever happened to her.
She does love him so.
And it will never, ever, be enough.
(3)
Maude hears her child crying for her.
The woman who cooks in the boarding-house will sleep through a tornado, although just her presence makes Maude think it might be safe to go out.
It's enticingly lucrative in those charming establishments down on the riverfront.
The sobbing stops her at the front door. Willful little thing only has three words. He's really supposed to be asleep.
"Hush," Maude whispers as she steps out on to the street. "I'm doin' this for you, darlin' boy." She smoothes the bodice of her dress.
Shoes.
No.
Mama.
They all mean the same thing.
(4)
Ezra's such a little scrap.
Cousin Archer's wife has dressed him in an over-sized nightshirt and cut his lovely hair.
Bless his heart, though. He doesn't make so much as a murmur of protest when he's plucked from the nest of warm, crumpled sheets.
"Wake up now, darlin'. Mama's come to fetch you."
He clings, sleepy, like a little monkey.
"This is my child," she says as Jeremiah hands her into the carriage.
He turns down an edge of blanket.
"Beautiful boy," he remarks. "That angel face will work a treat."
Maude holds him tight as they roll away.